


I Knew the Pathway Like the Back of my Hand

by supercoolygirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Smut, moody!jon, regal!sansa, show verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 19:49:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7236115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercoolygirl/pseuds/supercoolygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon has the custom of watching Sansa sew in the evenings, but as the Battle of the Bastards approaches he is more and more sullen. Sansa is determined to figure out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Knew the Pathway Like the Back of my Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by tumblr user simulatedfloridiansnow: Jon x Sansa where Jon is moody and Sansa isn't having any of it so she decides to make him happy.

“You’re brooding.”

Sansa’s accusation breaks what Jon had thought was amicable silence in front of the fire that evening. He had become accustomed to evenings like this, enjoying his sister’s companionship after the stress of the day.

“I do not brood,” he snaps sourly.

“You do so, Jon,” Sansa replies, as accusatory as before. Then she softens into a smile, “You know you do.”

His heart sings at that smile, the smile she never gave him as a child. _My sister my sister the only sister left to me._ His cock has a different thought, however, and Jon’s frown deepens. He grunts in response.

Sansa puts down her needlework and sighs, “You’ve only become grumpier and grumpier with me recently. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? We are family, Jon, you can be honest with me.”

He swallows thickly and thinks to tell her that it is just the stress of battle planning getting to him, because the gods only know that he can’t tell her that these evenings are all too close to his boyish dreams of a lady wife and a solar and children sleeping. He can’t tell her that she is beautiful, kissed by fire and surely the only thing he has ever truly wanted. He certainly can’t tell her that he cannot stand this closeness between them, that he hates her for being so beautiful and hates himself even more for wanting entirely Lannister things with her.

But she is looking at him expectantly, her eyebrows quirked and he knows that she knows it is not the stress of battle planning. He loves her too much ( _no he doesn’t not at all_ ) to lie to her now, so he says, “You’d hate me if you knew.”

She does not respond at first. Sansa tidies away her needlework, leaving his breeches half-holey. She rises and walks over to him, cupping his face with her hand. She strokes his cheek with her thumb, and Jon tries not to let his breath hitch. Instead he pauses his breathing, trying not to lean into her. He closes his eyes, lest he kiss her palm.

“I could never hate you. You are the only family I have with me and we are going to rescue Rickon together. There is nothing on this earth that you could do to make me hate you now.”

Her voice is so full of earnest that his heart almost breaks. The acknowledgement that she once may have hated what he was, at least when they were children, only further proves her sincerity. So he forces his eyes open and smiles at her. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be grouchy with you.”

“What can I do to cheer you up?” she asks, searching his face. “Would you like me to spend less time with you? You don’t have to spend your evenings here if you do not wish, I know it must be boring –”

“No!” Jon interrupts her, shocked. How can she blame herself, now, after everything they have been through? “We will never be parted again,” he growls. “You are my sister and I love you. We stay together.”

There is a pregnant pause. Sansa moves slowly, speaks quietly. “Am I your sister, Jon?” She gracefully perches in his lap. Jon is uncomfortably aware of how small the tent is.

“You said it yourself, we are family.”

“Aye, we are. But Mother and Father were a family, were they not?”

What she means is so obvious that Jon is certain he must be dreaming.

“Let me make you happy, Jon.”

When she presses her lips to his, his self-loathing rekindles with new flame. He has been too obvious, too forthright in his affections. Her tongue laps at his mouth and despite, or perhaps because of, his self-loathing he cannot resist his lips falling open to allow her access. They moan in unison and Sansa shifts from perching on his lap to straddling. Jon grips her waist to hold her still, away from his straining erection.

Sansa has other ideas, however, and is pulling him closer. Her lips are sweet, innocent and untrained, and Jon can’t help but thank the gods that despite all she has suffered, she has not had kissing ruined for her. He wraps his arms completely around her and she rocks her hips involuntarily. In her surprise she breaks the kiss, looking at him searchingly again.

“Don’t stop, sweetling,” he whispers against her temple. “You’re just fine.”

He hates himself even more for saying that. His honour should be speaking now: telling her to stop, that he is plenty happy with her as his sister, that they need not, _should not_ be lovers. The gods do not look favourably upon incest, yet here he is, rocking his hips up to meet hers as she grinds down upon him. For such a wanton movement she seems so pristine. So nervous and ladylike.

“ _Jon_ ,” she sighs, “More.”

“What do you want?” he asks desperately. His hand his up her skirts now, searching for the apex of her thighs. One day, maybe, when Jon is not feeling selfish; when this is not sudden and quick; he will lie her on a bed and kiss her there for years. But for now all he wants is to be inside of her. A new image appears in his mind: Sansa, round with his child, the glow of a mother in her eyes as she looks at him with the love she seems to have found for him these past weeks. He is so hard he cannot fathom caring whether that child is a bastard.

“I don’t know,” she wonders, “I ache.”

Jon’s hand reaches her small clothes and pulls them down awkwardly. He feels like a greenboy again, but his mood coupled with his desire is rushing him. _It has been so long,_ he thinks, kissing her neck, _so long since I knew I wanted you_.

He strokes her folds tentatively, searching for something in her face that shows he is doing something she likes.

“Yes,” she gasps, “There!”

He circles the little nub at the top and her moans get lower and louder. “Inside, Jon, please…” He pushes one, then two fingers inside her.

Her breath is short and fast now and Jon kisses her to keep her quiet. Her eyes are screwed shut and she is rocking against him.

“Are you close, sweet girl? Come for me sweetling, let me feel you come around my fingers.” Jon whispers these words and sweet nothings against all the bare skin he can reach. “I love you, Sansa, I love you. Sweet, beautiful, Sansa.”

Hearing her name must have triggered something within her because her mouth falls open in a silent scream and she clenches around him.

“Good girl,” he smiles genuinely. All bad mood is gone now as the image of Sansa’s face when she comes undone is burned into his mind. It is too glorious an image to tarnish with how wrong what he has just done to her was.

But tarnished it is. Sansa is a lady, she deserves better than a bastard finger fucking her in a tent. He moves to pull away, shame marring his face, when he feels Sansa’s hands at his laces.

“ _Inside, Jon, please_ ,” she repeats, frustrated, and his wonder at her perfection returns.

“We shouldn’t,” he manages to strangle out this time, but Sansa doesn’t seem to care. She is holding his cock, stroking it and it is so good he cannot make a sound. She moves over him and he is inside her, fully. Sansa makes no motion of pain, no noise and in the back of his mind he makes a note to ensure personally that Ramsay Bolton suffers. Sansa deserves to be loved.

Hands on her waist again he lifts her up and the motion is heaven. He won’t last, he knows, and as he thinks it his hips begin to jerk upwards, into her and without warning he his spilling inside her. “Sansa…” he groans.

They stay together for what feels like eons, after, but when his softening cock finally slips out of her the utter wrongness of what they have done slams into him again.

“Fuck,” he curses, not caring that she is there and has probably never heard such a base word in her life. “Father would kill me. Sansa, I am so sorry, sweetling. Can you ever forgive me?” His face his buried in his hands, but this is no good, he can smell the sweet scent of her cunny there too. Gods, how will he get over this?

“There is nothing to forgive, Jon,” she says imperiously. He stares at her. She is so regal. Queen in the North. Queen of his heart. Queen of his cock. “All the while you have been brooding, you have been ignoring what I might want.

“For so long, you were the only family I had left to me. I thought about seeing you again, how sweet it would be. When I saw you again at the Wall I could only think how sweet _this_ would be. I am not so innocent, Jon. I wanted someone to wash away what he did to me. You have done that,” she smiles sweetly. “I love you. We are family, and I will never leave you.

“I could never hate you for wanting this,” she breathes against his neck.


End file.
